Edgar Allan Poe

Morella
by
Edgar Allan Poe
Free Public Domain Books from the
Classic Literature Library
Morella Page 01
MORELLA
Itself, by itself, solely, one everlasting, and single.
PLATO: SYMPOS.
WITH a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my friend Morella.
Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul from our first meet
ing, burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros
, and bitter and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could
in no manner define their unusual meaning or regulate their vague intensity. Ye
t we met; and fate bound us together at the altar, and I never spoke of passion
nor thought of love. She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me
alone rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness to drea
m.
Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents were of no comm
on order -- her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and, in many matters,
became her pupil. I soon, however, found that, perhaps on account of her Presbu
rg education, she placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are
usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature. These, for wh
at reason I could not imagine, were her favourite and constant study -- and that
in process of time they became my own, should be attributed to the simple but e
ffectual influence of habit and example.
In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My convictions, or I forg
et myself, were in no manner acted upon by the ideal, nor was any tincture of th
e mysticism which I read to be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either
in my deeds or in my thoughts. Persuaded of this, I abandoned myself implicitly
to the guidance of my wife, and entered with an unflinching heart into the intri
cacies of her studies. And then -- then, when poring over forbidden pages, I fel
t a forbidden spirit enkindling within me -- would Morella place her cold hand u
pon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some low, singular w
ords, whose strange meaning burned themselves in upon my memory. And then, hour
after hour, would I linger by her side, and dwell upon the music of her voice, u
ntil at length its melody was tainted with terror, and there fell a shadow upon
my soul, and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones. A
nd thus, joy suddenly faded into horror, and the most beautiful became the most
hideous, as Hinnon became Ge-Henna.
It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those disquisitions which, gro
wing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a time, almost the
sole conversation of Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed
theological morality they will be readily conceived, and by the unlearned they
would, at all events, be little understood. The wild Pantheism of Fichte; the mo
dified Paliggenedia of the Pythagoreans; and, above all, the doctrines of Identi
ty as urged by Schelling, were generally the points of discussion presenting the
most of beauty to the imaginative Morella. That identity which is termed person
al, Mr. Locke, I think, truly defines to consist in the saneness of rational bei
ng. And since by person we understand an intelligent essence having reason, and
since there is a consciousness which always accompanies thinking, it is this whi
ch makes us all to be that which we call ourselves, thereby distinguishing us fr

om other beings that think, and giving us our personal identity. But the princip
ium indivduationis, the notion of that identity which at death is or is not lost
for ever, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest; not mor
e from the perplexing and exciting nature of its consequences, than from the mar
ked and agitated manner in which Morella mentioned them.
But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my wife's manner oppre
ssed me as a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of her wan fingers, nor the
low tone of her musical language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes. And sh
e knew all this, but did not upbraid; she seemed conscious of my weakness or my
folly, and, smiling, called it fate.